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Maids bustling through doors was commonplace in Castle Fhirdiad. With how tumultuous and volatile the new unified Fodlan was in its early stages of rebuilding, there simply wasn't enough time for propriety. Byleth would always prefer being interrupted by an urgent letter from Claude or Seteth than having a messenger waste time knocking, waiting, and giving her all the pomp royal etiquette demanded to tell her their hard-won peace was suddenly in flames.
The moment the door to her study had flung open, she was fully prepared to begin looking over letters and deligating what people to send where given Dimitri's blessing. If the maid hadn't looked so pale- so frightened- maybe she wouldn't have even noticed the lack of parchment and air of anxiety that always came with delegations.
"It's his majesty," she'd whispered, drawing back in fright as Byleth rose from her seat. "H-he is sick- unwell." She'd furrowed her brows.
Dimitri had never been prone to illness. His years in the slums and the wilderness had hardened him from simple sickness. Goddess, in the single season she'd spent as his wife thus far, she'd hardly ever seen the man let out a cough or sneeze let alone fall ill enough to cause worry. But she had seen even the strongest of men fall to plague.
She knew from Faerghus's own history that death had no qualms with stealing the lives of monarchs and mothers alike. And the terror that had reeked off the girl- the horrid dread and fear, unnatural in such new, fruitful peace, had Byleth's blood run icy- made her stall from rushing out to find him herself and waste no time to aid him.
"What's happened?" She asked, rounding her desk.
The maid's lip began to tremble. "I-I don't know-" she whimpered, "One moment he was fine, and the next he-... he had-" Byleth swallowed against the hard ball of fear in her throat and moved to comfort the woman, schooling her features into something softer- something easier to decipher in hopes to gain answers before she found them herself.
She gave her a moment to compose herself before continuing, genuine fear lacing her eyes. "Earlier in the day, his majesty had requested a balance of some sort. He seemed perfectly fine then- normal as usual- and I went to fetch it for him-" her brows sinched together- "but when I had come back it was as though he'd gone mad." Something within Byleth had dropped. "He had destroyed his study and screamed at me and the other servants to stay away."
She'd left before the woman could even bless her a careful encounter.
Her steps were hard as she raced down the halls, heels digging into the marble with a purpose she had not had since the war had ended, mind hissing in a horrible tone, "how, how, how did you miss the signs." Praying to Sothis, to that old friend still warm in her soul, she begged that he be alright, that he was safe from himself long enough for her to arrive.
Because Byleth knew it would take only a second to rend asunder his own life if he wished. And she'd seen how hard he had tried in the war. How he would run the front-lines with a weapon near breaking, eat too little when a march was approaching, wait too long for a healer to help him. Reckless just enough to cause a grave accident, but not reckless enough to cause worry to anyone that did not watch him closely.
"His majesty is but courageous. His majesty is saving food for the others. His majesty is making sure others get their help first" The church covered.
And though it was true to a point, that her husband was selfless to a fault and as brave as her father had been, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, her beloved, her king, her life, was once desperate to die, and even when his ghosts had quieted down into the night like a gentle breeze and his healing had come slowly but surely, she knew that hint of despair still clung to him like a shroud some days.
In faraway eyes that clouded when the fire in their room was too blazing and delicate nails bitten down till they bled, the pain of all he had endured still hit him some days. But as the war had gone on, he had gotten better. His fits of night terrors when he wasn't an insomniac had eased. Appetite and the hint of taste had returned to him. Laughter bubbled from his chest with more freedom.
With each step farther from his lifetime of war flames, he was healing, though not linear, no, he was healing all the same. But even when the dips came, she'd always seen them coming. She knew the signs like she did her way around a sword. Bouncing knees, broken training weapons, spilled ink, half-eaten plates, and eyes that saw right through even her. She'd always combated them, always eased the burden she hoped with tea and gentle hands and soft words and every little thing that would bring his eyes to the present and see just a bit clearer.
But there had been no signs this time. No broken cups. No requests from Dedue she try to speak with Dimitri. Not even a nightmare.
Nothing.
And that was what terrified her the most.
She skidded around a gaggle of maids pressed tight together as they spoke, eyes hard at the end of the hall. Urgent fingers shot out to that single door as Byleth passed them.
She slowed only to request something of them. "Please, keep anyone besides yourselves from disturbing Dimitri's study." She gave little mind to the slip of his title. She glanced down the hall, empty beside themselves. "The only man allowed past here is Dedue. After he arrives, you are dismissed."
They did not need the inflated gossip that could come of one maid with a loose tongue. Not now.
"Of course, Archbishop," one said, bowing deep before the others followed. Without another word, they bustled off to the opposite end of the hallway, as far away from Dimitri's study as possible.
How curious it was, she thought, how fear influenced people, pushing away a stranger, but drawing forward a friend, a lover, a partner. That fear not for herself, but for Dimitri. For her beloved.
And yet, it was fear still that made her stall outside his study door, made her chest tighten, and ice pool in her stomach as she leveled an ear to the hardwood, listening closely to the sound of nothingness.
For a moment, maybe even a beat of a heart, there was nothing. No subtle breeze from a window, no heavy breaths, or destruction promised by the maid, nothing. It was as if all sound had been sucked from the room, stolen like a breath of air shocked from ones lungs. As if even the room was holding its breath as she did. Holding it, until the softest, smallest sniffle escaped from beyond the wood.
Gently, she knocked on the door, careful not to startle the one within. "Dimitri?" she called, voice light and soft as she braced the knob, waiting for a bellow of anger, a hint of that rage or madness the maid had rumored that would beg for her to leave him. There was only that unworldly silence beyond the door, unpenetrable and everlasting. Only a deep nothingness that finally urged her to twist the knob and slip inside.
It was not a pretty sight, his study, the fine wood of his desk turned to splinters, drapes torn from their poles, and a window smashed into nothing but twinkling glitter. The echo of the once well organized and meticulous space was as scattered as the papers upon the floor, stained when not crumpled, torn when not shredded. Her eyes drew to a spill of ink, pointing a blotchy, accusatory finger to a figure hunched in the corner of the room.
There, curled within himself like a child hiding from calamity, the great king of Fodlan sat, his large, stable frame dwarfed by the quake of his shoulders, booming, resounding voice reduced to nothing but a whimper. His fingers curled against his face, covering his eyes, and looked away from her. This man who had the strength to break steel and the courage to face his mortal enemy calmly and resolutely hadn't the strength to look Byleth in the eye.
"I'm sorry," he breathed, voice thickened with tears. More a plea than anything. More desperation than she'd ever heard in that little phrase he'd said so many times in his short life.
She had rushed to him without thought, chest tight with anguish as she lowered in front of him, wrapping her sturdy arms around his shivering form. He pressed into her without hesitation, the contact withering a sob from his lips as she stroked her hands down his back. His own fell limp at his sides, far, far away from her. Sticky blood clung to them like weights.
"I'm sorry- I'm sorry," he keened, warm wetness seeping against her shoulder. "I don't know what happened-" his voice trembled as he sucked in a sharp breath, cold as ice.
"It's alright," she breathed, pressing him closer to her. "Don't apologize, it's okay." Her own voice shook, chest tight with pain at the sight of him so torn down. She took his hands and wrapped them around her, all the guidance he needed before hugging her close to him, his grip so heartbreakingly delicate.
"They wouldn't stop screaming." She closed her eyes and held him tighter. "I tried to ignore them I did- but I wasn't strong enough- I'm never strong enough," he sobbed. A dam built up of years broke to pieces and wiped him out.
Sobs heaved from his throat as he clutched at her, keening a horrible, soft sound that resounded in that empty place in her chest, silent when it should be racing. She threaded her fingers in his hair.
"Shhh," she breathed, rocking him slowly. "It's alright." Soft words, gentle as her touch as she soothes small circles into what skin she could reach. Surrounding him with a comforting touch when she could not peace of mind.
He took in a sputtering breath, choking upon himself between his heaves, ugly, harsh crying. The kind she'd done when her father had died. The kind he had never done, even in the rain. Her chest was tight as she wrapped herself around him, swaying slowly while she caressed him.
Swaying, until there was only the sound of soft rain against the floor, and his stuttering breaths as he gave in to her gentle touch. His soft, fragile whispers.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Till there were none left to say.
* * *
The room had grown chilly as the afternoon subsided to early evening, the gradient of time a soft, subtle shift. Long had the tears stopped flowing against her shoulder and the fingers clutched restlessly at her tunic. There was only silence now, tired peace in resolute breathing as she held Dimitri, grip tight in a desperate hope to keep him grounded. To keep herself grounded that he was safe now.
She rested her forehead against the top of his head, closing her eyes against the pain in her chest. He would be alright, she told herself.
He would be alright.
She pressed a gentle kiss to his hair, caressing it for a moment before she pulled away. His fingers pressed ever so slightly into her. Don't go. They said.
He looked up from her shoulder. A soft smile she hoped to be comforting crossed her lips. He always liked it when she smiled. She pushed his bangs back onto his forehead and wiped away a dried line of tears with her thumb, easing a gentle circle into his cheek.
"Would you like to have some tea with me?" she asked gently. "We can get you out of this room and fix up your hands."
He nodded, eyes lowering to his mangled palms, splinters marring every inch. Swallowing, "Yes, I- I would like that," he said
"Let me help you up then," she said softly as she untangled herself from his grasp, his legs and arms circled around her like vines as she rose. Cradling his arm, she pulled him to his feet and waited, bracing for a stumble or fall as she saw his knees wobble, shaky, a bit unsteady, but standing. Carefully, she guided him to the door, avoiding the shards of glass and broken desk, praying he did not look to them and lament. Yet, she knew he did. Knew he looked and hated himself over and over again for it
She reached for the doorknob, bracing for Dedue and his stalwart worry or a gaggle of maids, worried, rightfully so, but intrusive all the same, only to have her hand land on another's barred on the cold metal, keeping her from opening that door.
She didn't have to turn around to see the ashamed, humiliated expression that crossed Dimitri's face, she could feel it all from the tremble of his scabbed fingers and the gentle breath that left his lips.
"How can I face them, Byleth." She turned to him. His eyes, downtrodden and heavy, faltered as they stared at the floor. "I scared that poor woman. I broke my things. I injured myself in the process like some- some mindless boar." He choked on that final word. "How-" he met her eye, his gaze lost, and shameful- "how can I do it when I've disappointed them again?"
"Oh, Dimitri..."
Her hands eased up his arms, corded with muscle and rough with scars and wrapped around him. She pressed her forehead against his chest and closed her eyes, her chest aching, her eyes burning once more with those tears she could not shed- would not shed, for his sake.
She breathed in. Pine, conifer, snow, the scent of her love, her husband and partner through all, him. And let the truth of life sink deep in her bones; deeper than it already had.
She exhaled.
Dimitri hated himself.
She held him closer, held him tighter.
He hated himself and had for a long, long time, and though time had healed it somewhat and allowed him moments of respite lasting days, weeks, or months, in the end that hate, would never truly fade. In the end, he would always see his hands as bloodstained and his life as unredeemable.
And it ran her through. Ran her through because she could not help him how she wished she could. Ran her through because although this journey of theirs was an entwined one, some part of it would always be his alone to bear and fight through. Though their paths were shared now, they would each face the thicket of their pasts different, hand in hand or no. She knew the shadow of his would always loom against him.
But she would face it with him. She nestled in closer to him. She would always face it with him, no matter what. Because one day he would heal. One day he would hate himself a little less and another day even less and she wanted to see those days with him. She wanted to face the highs and lows and the moment he could not handle.
She never wanted to abandon him again.
"You must face them," she said as she pulled away, hands coming up to cup his jaw. "You must face them so they may see the potential of their king- so they may see how selfless he is, how caring and apologetic he is despite the reason, and how little he could disappoint them." Her hands fell. "You must face them so you may see for yourself how loved you truly are in their eyes, slip up or no."
His only response was a breath, soft and unfortunate- unbelieving. Her eyes fell to a single shard of glass, tipped just at her foot. It glimmered orange in the setting sun.
"You are worth redeeming, Dimitri." Her phantom heart tightened. "You always will be."
She stayed quiet then, letting him take those words as he would and hoped- no begged to the goddess- to her little companion warm in her soul- that the words broke through his wall of self-deprecation if only a sliver
He deserved that much.
And slowly, after a time of thought or consideration, Dimitri pulled his hands from the doorknob. Pulled away and then opened it himself. Byleth looked up to him, pleasant, subtle pride blooming across her cheeks.
He met her eyes with a solemn smile and took her arm. "I wouldn't want to postpone our tea time," he said, before stepping out into the hall her just in tow.
The maids had done just as Byleth had asked, allowing no one into the hall save for Dedue. Even he made his own presence scarce once they left the room, giving them both respectable space and a promise to sort out the study. Too tired to argue, Dimitri had only nodded, before allowing Byleth to lead him to their rooms. Thankfully, the trip was sparse of onlookers, no more a sighting of a mouse then there was a maid.
They were quiet as they walked, silence an easy companion as Byleth entered their rooms and led Dimitri within, motioning to a chair.
"I'll be with you in a moment," she said. She moved to the fireplace and lit it with a simple fire spell, then went to the shelf beside it. Dimitri had requested it for her, a little area to keep her supplies for tea and such and she'd made great use of it thus far. Without needing to scan over the countless blends of tea leaves and additives she grabbed a familiar, nearly empty container.
The smell of chamomile eased into her senses as she fetched a handful of leaves and her teapot, already pre-filled with water. She dropped them in, then dropped in another handful for good measure. Extra strong today, and that would be fine.
She placed the pot on a small peg above the fire and turned to Dimitri.
He sat alone at the small tea table, looking far too large for the little scrap of well-used furniture, but well at home. Knowing she would be able to share moments at that table with him forevermore warmed her heart ever so slightly.
Pulling up a chair beside him, she joined him and sat down.
"May I see your hands?" She asked softly, trying not to stare at the obvious wounds there. He nodded as he offered his right palm, facing it upwards on the table.
It wasn't by any means the worst she'd ever seen, just a few splinters and deep cuts, but knowing they laid upon him made it a little harder to bear. Just a little harder to face.
Was it her fault for not noticing all the signs? Was it her fault for letting her work get the best of her and not paying closer attention to him?
She rolled up her sleeves.
He let out a short hiss as Byleth plucked out the first splinter, much much longer than she expected and placed it onto a napkin beside her. She wiped away the dollop of blood that formed in his palm.
"Gentler, beloved," he requested, voice strained. She murmured a soft apology before continuing.
Maybe she had put too much on her plate this month, on both of their plates for that matter. She'd divided up their work as she always did and added her monastery duties as well upon herself, but maybe that was too much. She didn't have time to do anything else. Barely enough time to find a moment to drink tea. Had Dimitri, still new to his kingly duties fare even worse?
Did all that extra work lead to this?
She plucked out a handful of splinters and settled her palm upon his own and let out a gentle pulse of white magic into his hand, tingling her fingers before they went fuzzily numb for the slightest of moments.
She took his other hand.
Could it have been her own actions that caused the beginnings of his downfall?
Dimitri loved her. Loved her to Enbarr and back and would sacrifice almost everything for her if Byleth had no way to stop him, even himself. And when he considered himself as nothing, it would be easy to do so, she thought. It was that frame of mind that made her acutely aware of the weight her affections had with him now.
He was a strong man, but he was weak for her. He was in no means controlling, passive-aggressive, nor the type to be jealous, but the worries of his own unworthiness led him to be overbearing at some times. Any hint or suggestion that she was unhappy with him would only lead his mind to overthink, even if she had no such reason to be.
So did she say something crass? Did she push of his invitations to tea when she was working too many times? Did she push him away all in the name of a few papers and not even notice?
Oh goddess, was this all her fault-
"Beloved," Dimitri's voice broke through the fog of her thoughts like the whistle of a kettle, "the tea is done." Her brow furrowed. How could it be-... She looked down to his hand, covered with her own, healing light gently wafting from her palm. She quickly snatched it away to find his second hand finished and overly healed, the skin there pruned as though she'd left him in a bucket of water.
She blinked. "Apologies... I," she rose up from her chair, "I must have been lost in thought."
Rushing, Byleth moved to the kettle and pulled it off the peg and onto a platter. Chamomile scented steam assaulted her senses as she fetched the teacups and sugar.
She swallowed against the tight ball of anxiety that rose in her throat, against the memories of hollow eyes and hoarse voices, too lost in tragedy to see anything but grief- pain. She exhaled a hole through that layer of chamomile fog and sat the tray down.
She reached for a teacup. Dimitri settled a hand over top of hers. Her gaze rose to his own. Something as soft as care crossed his eye.
"You worry about me," he said. She almost laughed. Worry wouldn't do it justice.
She looked away. "I do," she said as she pulled her hands back, fiddling with the nail of her thumb. "I know I shouldn't," she admitted. "You're a grown man now, not a student and you don't need me... hovering." Sometimes she wished she could help it, all those new emotions that welled up in her throat when he was around. From love to anxiety to sadness, he drew it all from her, and she'd never had the practice to withhold them.
"It is nice to be worried about," he admitted lightly. "But only when it comes from a place of care, not anxiety."
"I guess you would not prefer what I worry for then." She moved back to her tray and sat a cup in front of each of them. Hot china warmed her hands as she began pouring him his tea. Tight pain bloomed in her chest as the little hissing voice in the back of her mind called to her.
It is your fault.
You did this to him.
You abandoned him again.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and sat down the kettle.
"Byleth," he said, concern edging his voice. "I beg of you, tell me what worries you. good or bad about me, I... this is not like you to be so pained-"
"Is it my fault?"
His brow furrowed. "What?" A shocked breathy sound.
"Is this my fault- did I do something to cause this breakdown? Surely," her voice weakened, "I must have done something if it became this bad." Her eyes bore into his own. "Please, tell me if I did. I beg of you."
Pain crossed his features, unwavering and unfiltered. "Byleth, oh goddess, no- no it wasn't you." He rose from his chair and rounded the table to her side. Her lips parted in shock as he kneeled before her, taking her hands into his own. "Nothing ever from you could ever cause this."
"Then what did," she asked gently. Voice soft as the start of the rain.
"I..." He paused. Stopped for a long moment just to breathe, to consider. Before a soft, sad smile crossed his lips. "I thought... against all better judgment, about her." And there needed no clarification for it. The her once spoken with venom, then dread, now sorrow, soft and kindling. His eye fell. "We had played in these halls. Danced in the ballroom as children. Bickered in the courtyard." A sad kind of fondness crossed his eye, before it faded, marred as he pressed his palm to a still puckered wound upon his shoulder. "She had every right to hate me."
Byleth squeezed his hands and listened to the soft patter of rain against the window sill as he spoke, imagining for a moment the two of them as children gazing out in wonder, unknowing of the fate they would lead.
"I hated her out of ignorance. A lack of evidence and a need to pin the blame. And she must have done the same." He chuckled, a cold, dark thing. "For it was in that same ignorance she never got to meet the mother that had loved her enough to murder." His eyes tightened. "I wonder, now, if I had known, if I had put two and two together and understood that look my father always had around her, if... things could have been different."
He swallowed thickly. "Maybe," he said, "had I noticed how weary my father was of bringing Edelgard close to my step-mother I could have saved... so, so many."
"Dimitri," she breathed, "You could never have known. Never in your life could you have known at that age who she was to your step-mother, or what would happen. Your father... whatever his reasons were, would never have allowed her to see her mother even if she wanted to. And even if somehow you had managed to allow them a meeting, would the thought of watching her child be taken away once again not be just as heartwrenching? not cause the same outcome?"
He traced the line of her thumb. "Perhaps. But fate... maybe it could have been changed."
She lowered her eyes. "Perhaps." Blinking against the sight of her father, and how many times she had tried to change his fate.
"Fate cannot change, though, can it, Byleth?"
She closed her eyes, swallowing against the tender ball in her throat and the burn in her eyes. Sothis' old words rung in her ears. She reached across the table and poured herself her cup. Bringing it to her lips, she spoke over the rim of steam. "No... No it cannot."
"Perhaps," he mirrored, "but you did change mine."
He looked down into their entwined hands, eyes soft, tired in the wake of his tears. But slowly, faintly as he looked up to her he grazed her with a smile. One as fragile as a shred of starlight, with all the hope of a child- of a student who had once bounded beside her between classes and took her to dinner every opportunity.
A beautiful, crestfallen savior.
"Your smile," she breathed, "it's mesmerizing." He leaned into her touch, her gentle hand that she had not even known had come to cup his cheek. A soft huff left his lips as he closed his eye. A hand came to support her own.
"Such words coming from you, my love, surely you must be seeing a different man."
"I see only you," she murmured. Easy, unthinking words. Ones she did not know would ever affect him so.
Because something like understanding, something like realization short staying and short-lived crackled behind his eyes. A sign, glorious and bright that he would be healing.
That always he would heal.